


The Dreaming Stone

by o_antiva



Series: Demons of the Known Lands [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Implied Past Trauma, Insomnia, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 09:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11124648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_antiva/pseuds/o_antiva
Summary: From a prompt, "Cullen is finding it harder and harder to get any sleep, stressed out from his work for the Inquisition and feeling the effects of lyrium withdrawal. Dorian notices the bags under his eyes and his glazed expressions and asks if he can help. Cullen doesn't want to take sleep potions but there is a magical cure for a peaceful night's sleep."





	The Dreaming Stone

**Author's Note:**

> This story belongs in the Demons of the Known Lands worldstate. Standalone in its own right.

He learned a new word today. Sleet. To sleet. Of course the southerners would have a specific word for that delightful mix of freezing rain and snow, and how perfectly it slipped down the back of your neck, and how it blew into your eyes no matter which way you turned your head. Simply awful. Utter bullsleet.

He stood before the war table as a martyr, sodden and dripping. Neither Josephine nor Leliana appeared much impressed with his bravery. The room was frigid: it was the fault of those huge panel windows, pretty to look at, though they did nothing but let in the cold. The Inquisitor was delayed to his own meeting, likely from foolishness. The last Dorian saw of him, Maxwell was laughing in a snow battle with one of the troops, a brassy Fereldan lad with a good throwing arm. Most everyone loved His Grace, a young man as good-natured as he was good-looking.

The commander never showed for the War Table meeting, and just as well. They had only just returned from the field. It was going to run long enough as it was with only two advisors present. What was there to say? Rifts closed, quests quested, and evildoers vanquished. All right, so there was a great deal to go over: Trevelyan appeared to be learning how to exert influence over the rifts, even so far as tearing a hole in the Veil and plunging his enemies through it. Now how was it exactly that it was "a miracle" and "the Maker's favor" when Trevelyan did that, but it was "the Second Sin" and "fouling the Black City" when the Tevinters had their turn...

Truth be told, Dorian was concerned for the intrepid young Herald. Bright lad, a promising mage, but there he went, goofing headlong into his destiny with a smile on his face. He really had no idea what he was trifling with. No one did, honestly, but it wasn't just that haircut that gave Dorian cause to question his judgment. All his life he'd heard the parodies of what the southern Circles must be like, but now he saw its consequences embodied in the people all around him. Never had he seen so much power with so little understanding. The southern Chantry shut up all their mages and threw away the key, but it also trapped them in ignorance.

He watched more than heard as the Inquisitor regaled their exploits in Orlais. It was perhaps for the best that he waved his hands and spoke excitedly in the presence of only two thirds of his advisors. Dorian could imagine the look on Cullen's face as the Inquisitor said things like, 'I don't know how I did it, but suddenly the Veil exploded.' Now Cullen insisted hotly that he wasn't a templar anymore, he never would be again, but he would get this look on his face sometimes when Trevelyan talked, and the look was this: of an alarmed father trying to keep his toddler from eating something nasty that he found on the floor. Dorian wouldn't be surprised to find Cullen framing Trevelyan's face in his gloved hands, demanding, 'What's in your mouth? Spit it out!'

Oh Cullen. Where was he now? An afternoon meeting run late? Sometimes he was detained. Of course they were all busy, the advisors, but Leliana would never pass up an opportunity for information, and Josephine always took too much upon herself. She ought to tell people that she can't make it. Cullen was much more comfortable saying No. In fact, it was his favorite word, his motto, his lifestyle.

Dorian's attention drifted toward the latter part of the debrief, which involved some gesticulation around the Fereldan half of the map. He was immersed in thought on his upcoming bath and his soon-to-be supper. His lout of a horse had gotten into his rations on the way back, that fleabitten bastard. It seemed criminal to come out of Orlais on an empty stomach. What was the world coming to.

"What do you think, Lord Pavus?" Josephine asked him-- always so polite. "Will you do it?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely. What am I agreeing to do?"

Maxwell grinned at him. "Finding the Venatori camps in Ferelden. Recovering artifacts. Investigating rumors of magic."

Dorian made a flourish of a bow. "I am your man," he solemnly swore. "So long as you don't team me with Blackwall."

"You're going with Blackwall."

"I think I'm coming down with a cold."

.............

The servants here were really a different sort than back home. Take Moll, for instance. He was accustomed to a certain servile grace, a humble dignity, a near-preternatural awareness-- no, divination-- of his needs and moods before they manifested even to himself. Not the big redheaded Fereldan lass who barged about everywhere, a chair on her shoulders, a hefty sack, a barrel, crabbing out, "Urright, what d'you want, Lord Fancy?" She had the body of a wallop captain, the hands of a butcher, and the heart of a mule if not the kick. Dorian was sure she could _knock the shit_ out of Corypheus, if only you pointed her in the right direction, and if it weren't too long a walk from the tavern.

He'd requested the bath to be filled, and she'd given him a squinty look behind her greasy bangs. "S'not right to do a bath so much," she told him. "Bad for your humors."

"Oh no, not if you use a lot of bubbles. They like that."

"You'll wash yer skin off."

"Then I will shall be the scariest necromancer yet. Now off with you."

"Yes me lord... right away, me lord." She flourished a curtsy with shimmying hands. Then away and off she lumped, hopefully to return in some timely manner. Dorian dripped off to the kitchens in the meanwhile. He was hungry enough to eat a horse. His horse, in fact. He would really have to do something about that cantankerous mount.

The southern cuisine no longer repelled him. It had its own rustic charm, he supposed. Crusty rolls of bread with seeds all over them. Cuts of ham. Spiced dried apples. Dorian was hungry enough to eat turnips at this point, which he understood to be a kind of Fereldan apple? Dorian would have preferred more fruit, more greens, and especially more olives, but it was too cold in the south to allow for such things year-round.

He soaked in his tub for some mind-numbing amount of time, his magic breathing in and out to make it hot. He kept his munchables within arm's reach, and a bottle of wine, too. It was all very cozy, the cold of the past four days melting away into a pleasant stupor. He began to drift, carried away by wet heat and the patter of weather outside.

..............

The only consolation of the meeting had been that Fiona healed his hand. Cullen had protested the use of her magic, preferring that it be employed toward better means. Then she asked him pointedly how he planned to grip a pen, a sword, or reins? He said it would heal in time, and Fiona whisked her magic over him: _There it is_ , she told him. _There was the time._ Sometimes Cullen forgot she had been a Grey Warden once, that there was a fierce character to the woman who had led the rebellion. Then she excused herself from his office, the last of his guests to go, and he was left alone in the cold dripping tower.

At least she hadn’t asked how he had injured himself. He would have to be careful.

Heaving a sigh, Cullen slumped at his desk to sort through his documents. There was no pressing need for him to do so, but he might as well. He knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. He'd slept too much two days ago, and now his tenuous schedule had been ruined. It always happened this way. 

His heart felt like it beat too fast in his chest. In his throat, almost. He had that uneasy tired-excited flutter that made him wonder if he would die. Would it be like that? Dropping dead at his desk? Sometimes it happened in the Order, even the ones who never tried to quit.

He shuffled papers and looked toward the loft above. Not that he could sleep anyway if he wanted to. The open patches of the roofing did not usually concern him, but what was he to do with freezing rain in his bed? He was irritated to think of how Rylen and Blackwall and Cassandra and Varric thought to tell him to move his personal dwelling elsewhere. It was too much to explain why he needed this. Let the weather do what it would for now. The season was changing.

Josephine had left him a few pages in preparation for his journey. A fine job, as always: in her own handwriting she explained the climate of Fereldan politics and the attitudes of the prominent lords. Certain names leaped from the paper, the names of templars Cullen had known in the chantry and in Kinloch. So many dead. So many gone. What must the nobility think of it, to have lost their sons in the broken circle, where only Cullen had remained?

He became aware that he was simply staring into nothing, paper in hand. The candles were burning low. He would have to replace them soon. He wanted desperately to sleep, but he knew he wouldn't, or that if he did, the bad memories would find him anyway. He was meditating on this sour and defeated mood when a knock came at the door, and one of the soldiers imparted some news. Lord Pavus wished to speak to him in his quarters.

"I've not the time for it," he said, pitching his voice to be heard outside. "Was it important?"

The soldier said it was, but Cullen detected a long silence before the young man said, ".... yes." 

Excuses barged to the fore of Cullen's mind. He really ought to prepare more for his journey (he already had). He really ought to get some rest (he wouldn't). When he was honest with himself, it seemed he always had a reason to deprive himself of something that he would have liked. He always did this to himself.

"Very well," Cullen said, then. He pushed a piece of paper unhappily around his desk. "I suppose I could... a few minutes... " Now he mostly muttered to himself.

Ordinarily, it was Dorian who would find him in the tower late at night. The man always slept into the afternoon, like some spoiled and lazy cat, and then he would rise and stretch and go sauntering about for entertainment. Cullen had to admit he had come to enjoy the diversion, perhaps more than he should. Still, it was always Dorian who came to him, and he was not entirely sure where to find the man. 

Wherever he was, it would be warmer than here. Cullen did not normally experience the extremes of cold... but his breath was beginning to show in the air. 

.............

Cullen didn't appreciate the idea of being found asking around for Dorian's room, especially at this hour. Not that he had anything against-- or that he minded-- it was just... Thankfully, he encountered Solas, who had emerged from the lower stairway with a dusty tome in his hands. Cullen understood there to be a secondary library somewhere in the lower reaches of the keep. Without pretense he asked Solas where to find Dorian's room, and without pretense he received his answer. So patient, so polite. A brief memory of Orsino flitted before his mind, but he crushed it before it became anything more.

In the hall with Master Tethras is what he said. Cullen knew where that was. One might say that Varric lucked out with his accommodations, but Cullen knew luck had nothing to do with it. Varric had situated himself in fine comfort, heretofore the only occupant in a floor whose rooms were filled with storage. Cullen had spoken to him privately once or twice in his personal quarters, a room sparsely yet richly furnished with what was there: a crackling fireplace, a thick dwarven rug, a writing desk of polished cherrywood. Varric had made out quite well for himself-- considering he began this journey as Cassandra's prisoner. As had Cullen... in his own way.

Cullen stepped out of the stairway into the quiet floor, where candles burned dim upon the walls. There were voices behind Varric's door, and the raised tone of a woman's voice caught Cullen in alarm. Both he and his heart stopped, only to resume when he realized it wasn't Hawke. You would know her voice anywhere. The argument receded as Cullen passed by, and he saw a pair of muddy boots set outside a door toward the end of the hall. Snakeskin boots with toes like _that_. Of course Dorian. 

He knocked.

There was sort of a, a watery sound? 

Cullen knocked again.

"I'm not here." Dorian's voice.

Cullen leaned his head in toward the door. "It's me," he said, as quietly as he could.

Dorian almost sounded surprised. "Cullen, is it?" 

With slowly building annoyance, Cullen hissed, "Yes." Who else? Had Dorian not sent for him in his office?

"I might be here. I don't know, I'll check."

"May I enter?"

"Of course, come in. I can't remember if I locked it... and if not, Varric can let you in." Was Dorian so lazy that he would rather the rogue pick the lock on his door than get up from whatever he was doing? Good lord.

Anyhow, it was the Varric situation that Cullen was intending to avoid. Although the man seemed busy with his own troubles at the moment, that woman in there, but unlike certain others, Cullen had no interest in prying into personal matters _ever again_.

The knob turned. Cullen walked in, blinking into the dim warm light of the room-- briefly marveling at the cultured and eclectic interests displayed all about him. A dozen candles of aromatic beeswax, magical artifacts on the fireplace mantle, Orlesian furniture in polished wood, Dorian in his bathtub, leatherbound tomes on their shelves... wait.

"Close the door, if you would," Dorian told him. "You're letting in cold air." He was lounging in a copper tub, his hands on the rims, his look a perfect mix of curiosity and mischief.

Cullen recovered from the sight. "Dorian," he said with an exasperated buzz to his voice. He pulled the door shut behind him. "Why would you send for me now? Couldn't you wait?"

Dorian looked like he had no idea what he meant by that, but then, he was never one to resist the opportunity to be flippant. "What if I needed someone to do my back?" he whined in his most spoilt _altus_ tone. He made a bitchy little face to go along with it, but then he honed in on Cullen with new interest. "Actually, I didn't send for you. Did you believe I did?"

"You... you didn't?"

"I didn't."

Cullen felt heat rising in his face and ears. Pressure tightened in his chest and throat. "Cole," he said. His brow pinched. "Blast. I should have... I always forget it's him." He put up his hands to back away. "He came into my office and said you needed to speak to me. I apologize for having disturbed you."

Dorian delighted in his embarrassment, mild though it was. "Oh, but it seems you are the one that is disturbed." He chuckled. "As it is, I don't _need_ to speak to you, but I would like to, if you're already here. Provided that your delicate sensibilities can heal from this--" he flicked water "-- _grievous injury_."

There was no telling what Cole meant this time. Cullen had come to accept Cole's aid to the Inquisition, due in no small part to Trevelyan's insistence he had been sent by the Maker. It was difficult for Cullen to believe that a spirit of the Fade would try so hard to _help _and _comfort_ , but the years had ground down his reservations one by one. Had he not believed the templars to be the Champions of the Just? Meredith a hero? Himself the necessary force that held back the tide?__

__Cullen staunched the wave of negative emotions. It always happened like this. He realized, simply, that Cole just wanted to help, in his own way. His weird way. He wouldn't have understood this to be inappropriate. Perhaps he merely thought that Cullen needed a break, which was true. He was weary and cold and sodden from sleet. He did want to talk to Dorian, so... so that was fine. This was fine. If Dorian was fine with it._ _

__Aware that Dorian was still watching him intently, Cullen shook his head and pressed his fingertips into his eyelids. "I thought it was something important," he explained. "I was busy."_ _

__"You might as well stay now." Dorian lifted a shoulder and let it fall. He looked elegant and regal, as though he might hold court from the edge of his tub._ _

__"Well, don't get up on my account," Cullen told him drily._ _

__Dorian made his best, most impish smile. "As you can see, I've nothing to hide from the Inquisition."_ _

__Cullen couldn't help a slow grin from spreading, even though he caught his lip in his teeth. This only seemed to encourage Dorian so much the more: he danced his fingertips on the rim of the tub, looking immensely pleased with himself._ _

__"So, are you going to stand there in your wet and stinky armor, or are you going to make yourself comfortable, like a civilized being? You look terrible."_ _

__"I won't be staying long."_ _

__Dorian rolled his eyes. "Well, if you must, but at least relax while you're here. You make me tense when you're tense." He made a wave over the surface of the water with his hand. "I want to just soak here and become a kind of... soup."_ _

__Cullen exhaled. He didn't realize he was holding his breath. Well. Why shouldn't he just. Fine. If he was honest with himself, Dorian didn't make him nervous on his own, not Dorian, not his nudity. He couldn't pinpoint the source of his anxiety. Perhaps it was always there, trying to morph and change itself to fit every situation. Was he worried of being found here? No, of course not. He no longer cared what people thought of him. The worst had already been done._ _

__"I apologize," he said, dropping his hands to unbuckle his sword belt. "I've suddenly imposed upon you, and I've no wish to make you uncomfortable in your own room. I-- it's nothing to do with you, I assure you. I was in the middle of something when Cole sent for me."_ _

__Dorian nodded slowly, and as he glanced up from his unfastening, Cullen saw that he had done right to explain to him thusly. He'd no wish to make Dorian feel unease, especially when he was bound to wonder if it concerned him. After all, Dorian felt _everything_ was about him._ _

__"Well, do have a seat," he said. "Drink some wine. I'm sure whatever it was will cease to become important in no time, if it ever was at all."_ _

__Folding the loose straps of the belt, Cullen lifted his sword by the frog and looked about for a place to put it. He would want to have it near, as always. He set it across the edge of a table that seemed mostly the home of books, though there was a bronze tray of incised patterns that held little vials of oils and brushes and things. Grooming implements. He thought he might smell them too, just faintly. Something Dorian used in his hair._ _

__As he glanced away, Cullen took in the state of the room once again. "You've got clothes all over the floor," he said as he shrugged off his mantle._ _

__"It's my room."_ _

__"These look expensive."_ _

__Dorian leaned back in the tub. Water rushed gently to fill the change in motion. He was tapping a knuckle against his lower lip, his brow furrowed in thought. "Dear Maker me," he breathed. "An unannounced visit and unasked-for complaints. A templar at odd hours. This is a room inspection, isn't it? Young Maxwell told me about those in the Circle. The Champions of the Just, all barging into your room to search it for contraband."_ _

__Cullen rolled his eyes as he unstrapped the last of his armor. He set its components on hooks by the entryway and on the frame of a chair, whose backing was carved and ornate._ _

__"Here I thought myself safe." Dorian grinned at him. "Did you do many of those? Room inspections?"_ _

__"As a new templar, yes," Cullen replied. "I hated them. It always felt invasive, and we'd never find anything of any concern." He sighed and gripped his right shoulder, rotating his arm once it was free. He felt mild relief when something popped._ _

__Dorian's grin turned naughty. "What was the weirdest thing you discovered?"_ _

__"Weirdest. Saddest. I don't know. Use your imagination." Cullen shrugged as he went to the fire. "It's not for me to say."_ _

__"Maxwell says they would try to secretly brew their own liquor."_ _

__"With food squirreled away from mealtimes. Yes."_ _

__"Vile, no?"_ _

__Cullen remembered being a foolish young templar, standing around with his fellows, daring each other to take a taste of the cache of mage liquor. Ah, idiots. He snorted as he reached out for a split log to wedge it into the flames. "I would prefer not to... reminisce about the templars, if it's all the same."_ _

__"I'm sorry, Cullen. I'm only teasing." Dorian showed his palms. Then he smiled. "But if there's anything that catches your eye in here, you're welcome to look around."_ _

__Cullen decided he would sit at the Orlesian-looking settee by the fire. Some clothing lay rumpled upon it, so he cleared it away. "Where do you want this?"_ _

__"Oh, just anywhere."_ _

__Cullen shook his head, and he folded the shirt with precision, setting it and the other articles upon the table with the books. He felt an odd peace creeping in at the edges, reminded of ordinary life with roommates, back when he had them as a junior templar. It was good having someone to talk to, even if he didn't want to talk to anyone. Just having someone there._ _

__"That one would look good on you, I think," Dorian said thoughtfully after a moment. "The green shirt."_ _

__"These are much too fancy for my tastes."_ _

__"Oh, nonsense. I didn't think you had any tastes at all."_ _

__"Says the man with the silly mustache." Cullen sank onto the settee, and it felt as good as he thought it would. With his armor gone, he realized the weight of it, and how much his shoulders and back were hurting him. He felt almost dizzy divested of the burden._ _

__"I think you mean _distinguished_ ," Dorian replied. "A distinguished mustache. Although I'll admit, I didn't know what to think of it at first." He kept his voice light and airy, almost faraway... "But it grew on me."_ _

__Cullen shut his eyes, groaning as though he had absorbed a physical blow. That was terrible, so he refused to reward it with any attention. Instead he asked, "How was Orlais?" He reached for the wine and, holding the bottle by the neck, he looked about for cups. With the raise of an eyebrow, Dorian directed his attention back to the mantle, where actual glass wineglasses awaited. Of course. Cullen took them._ _

__"Disappointing in the extreme. Their little war has flared up again, and we couldn't much of anything done but close a few rifts. Otherwise, we saw halla and elven ruins. Trevelyan climbed a tree for the first time... was stung by a bee for the first time... and Cole ate a rock the size of his head."_ _

__"Dare I ask."_ _

__"He just opened his entire face and absorbed it in. He said he wanted to feel what it was dreaming."_ _

__Hardly the strangest thing Cole had done so far, so Cullen remarked only, "Naturally." He filled a glass. The liquid glowed red in the light of the fire. "Do you want to drink your wine now, or when you get out?"_ _

__Dorian broke into a smile. "Oh, that's a good idea, if I'm to be the decadent Tevinter," he said. Water fell as he lifted an arm out of the bath and Cullen handed him the glass. Their fingers touched, and the sensation traveled up his arm._ _

__If Cullen was to be honest with himself, then, of course he found Dorian attractive. He wasn't ashamed of it, nor did it make him unduly nervous. He found himself always awkward with women, not knowing what to say, but with men there was a long comfort and familiarity. His entire life had been a history of shared space with men, though Dorian was different than anyone else he had known._ _

__Of course he was handsome. One of those Qarin people with the dusky brown skin, the proud features. His eyes were light, though, and made an interesting contrast. They held your attention. Although Cullen had rarely seen him exercise-- he must do it here in private-- the man kept himself in excellent shape, and there was a strength in his movement and presence._ _

__He hardly thought of him as a mage. Not a _mage_ like in the Circle, not a helpless weapon twisted with fear, not knowing how to be a person. _Made_ that way, Cullen knew now, but there was no undoing what was already done. And what exactly was the perfect solution now? Yet Dorian had always been a free man, destiny in hand, as dashing and confident as Hawke had been-- apostate without apology, full of mischief and the zest of life. Cullen had come to realize after Haven that he might trust Dorian in the way he had trusted Hawke, although, he had to admit that the Tevinter was more predictable. There was no telling what Marian might do at any given time._ _

__Cullen supposed if he really dug into the matter, it was that he'd been nervous at the thought that _Dorian_ might be nervous. Despite his bravado, Dorian bore the scars of a lifetime of repression. Cullen knew it when he saw it. He'd seen it in the Free Marches, such a stupid, simple, destructive thing. Hard for him to understand, at first, as a man of Ferelden. He didn't want Dorian to think that Cullen was uncomfortable around him, that his preferences were distasteful or offensive, that it wasn't right to share a close space with him. _ _

__Part of him yearned to broach the topic with Dorian, to tell about himself, but... he feared to make matters worse. To lead him on. Cullen valued the friendship he thought they had. He couldn't offer what Dorian would expect, and he didn't know how much longer he had. Or how much he could endure._ _

__He became aware then that he was holding his glass untouched, and that he was gazing at Dorian, who had to be wondering. The arched eyebrow said it all._ _

__"So-- the stone." Cullen cleared his throat. "What was it dreaming?" He took a drink._ _

__"I don't know, Cole didn't tell us." Dorian smiled, and Cullen could easily imagine himself combing his fingers through the wet black hair. Washing his hair, even. Simply being kind to him. "I gather you've been occupied here?"_ _

__"With Fereldan matters, mostly," Cullen answered. "We're putting together teams to remove the red lyrium caches there. Varric has been teaching the first crew. The Venatori remain scattered, yet still active. We've reports that they are scouring the land for magical artifacts."_ _

__"I've been informed the same. I'll be heading out on that mission also, as a matter of fact." Dorian lazed in his tub. "Hopefully, I can find another, more suitable mount. That ride killed me."_ _

__"You know," Cullen said. "We've a report of a stray dracolisk running loose in the woods. If you could catch him, he'd be yours."_ _

__"Oh, I like the sound of that. A trusty steed." Dorian looked excited at the prospect, and Cullen wondered how he might justify resources to catch the beast for him. "Now, avert your eyes, Cullen. We mustn't tarnish your innocence."_ _

__Cullen chuckled into his glass of wine. He shifted toward the fire. The heat felt so good on his face and arms and boots. "You don't have anything I haven't seen," he said._ _

__"I'm sure you've seen all sorts of things, actually." Dorian stood dripping from the bath. Cullen heard the water falling. "I hear the southern mages are shameless, really... "_ _

__"And Tevinters aren't?"_ _

__Dorian toweled himself off. "We're oddly particular about our orgies. They have to be just right."_ _

__Cullen laughed. "I'm sure you've been to some wild parties."_ _

__"At the last one, someone died from suffocation by rose petals."_ _

__"Now you're just having me on."_ _

__"Oh, live a little. Though I'd suppose you hate parties. You wouldn't know fun if it jumped up and smacked you on the bottom."_ _

__He would enjoy parties more if he weren't so often smacked on the bottom. Maker above, but the nobles were irritating. "I do hate it. People talking all the time. Talking to me. Getting in my space. Demanding my attention. It's exhausting."_ _

__"Well, we're talking right now?"_ _

__"That's different. I enjoy talking to you." Cullen didn't mean for his voice to sound that soft. It was only that he was just tired. He heard Dorian pause momentarily, before he began to dress himself, likely in the most comfortable thing he had laying around on the bed or the chairs or the floor._ _

__Not for the first time, Cullen thought that Dorian deserved a lover here. He had seen the ripple of interest in some of the mages here, in those that were inclined that way. Dorian would undoubtedly represent some tantalizing symbol of freedom and decadence, all that they were denied. Yet Dorian left them well enough alone, perhaps as he should._ _

__Not for the first time, either, Cullen thought he could be that lover, if things were different. He knew Dorian would melt to him. He knew he could have Dorian even now, if he made a move. The brush of lips, the squeeze of his hand. _I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It didn't seem relevant at first for you to know._ He sensed it in the air. He could feel it when they touched. Dorian was not as invincible as he thought he was. There were gaps in his armor, and in the weak points, Cullen saw him bleeding. It was hard to tell how this began between them, their late night talks, their games of chess. Dorian was alone here, in his way, and so was Cullen. They had started to make something of it together._ _

__Cullen didn't have an interest in mulling over how it would look, or what people would think-- in flashes of anxiety, or laying uselessly in bed, he would think of that. Yet he knew it was impossible for some people to hate him any more than they did._ _

__Blast-- if anything, a liaison with a Tevinter mage might raise his standing, along with some eyebrows._ _

__However the paramount issue was this, that in the most practical sense it was impossible. Years of heavy lyrium use had left him a gelding of sorts. He still experienced desire, albeit desire in more an abstract sense. He yearned for closeness more than physical pleasure, but these were the least of his concerns with the complications looming over him. The headaches seemed his constant companion, and the seizures came more often now. Just two nights ago he'd had an episode. He'd been trying to drink water just before it happened, and he crushed the glass in his hand when he seized. Blood sprayed everywhere... thank the Maker no one was there to witness it. He still believed he could hold it all together until the war was through, but sometimes that belief was shaken._ _

__Dressed and groomed, Dorian settled in the plush chair nearby. He had chosen for himself a loose shirt of soft-looking fabric, its design casual yet exotic to Fereldan tastes. The material was dyed a black color that revealed a red sheen in the firelight, and along the edges it was embroidered with little glass beads, each like the seed of a crystalline plant. He had applied some kind of fragrant oil to his hair or his throat; Cullen could smell it, even with his blunted senses._ _

__"What are you thinking about, I wonder," Dorian said as he played with his wineglass._ _

__Rather than regurgitate all manner of dark thoughts and foolishness, Cullen smiled gently, and said, "I was only thinking how good this is. I should have visited you sooner."_ _

__When Cullen looked up out of the glass, he saw Dorian smiling at the praise. "I know," he agreed. "Your terrible office with no fireplace, no wine."_ _

__"There is wine in my office."_ _

__"Swill of a wine perhaps. Not like this."_ _

__Cullen smirked. "Well, it's good you told me, then, since I keep it for guests. As it happens, I can't taste the difference."_ _

__Dorian made a show of taking offense. "You mean you can't appreciate this vintage?" His left hand cut toward the glass in his right._ _

__"I can't taste it well," Cullen told him, "but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate it in the spirit it is offered."_ _

__That seemed to be the right thing to say. Dorian nodded. "I tease you. I think it's the lyrium, then, isn't it?"_ _

__"Yes."_ _

__"And that's why you don't sleep, also?"_ _

__"Part of it."_ _

__"Nightmares?" Dorian guessed._ _

__Cullen looked away, but that was likely to be taken for his answer._ _

__"Often?"_ _

__"Often enough."_ _

__"I don't suppose you'd want to talk about your dreams."_ _

__"No."_ _

__Dorian nodded, and it seemed he might allow the topic to rest. Yet something compelled him on, something from a place of concern. Cullen saw it in his eyes, and he heard it in the gentle tone that Dorian now adopted. "Perhaps you may consider another time. I will listen. Fear thrives in silence, you know. Where it can isolate you. When dragged before others it can lose its power."_ _

__Cullen sighed. He didn't think he could bear to explain. He hadn't ever told anyone in his own words. There were those that knew through official report on the incident. Others, likely through hearsay and rumor. He knew of at least one living witness here in Skyhold, who unlike other mages did not look at him with contempt. No. That one wouldn't look Cullen in the eye at all._ _

__"I can't trouble you with all my sorrows," he said before he emptied his glass._ _

__"I might decide for myself if I were troubled or not." Dorian poured wine for him. "Are we not friends, Cullen?"_ _

__"I like to think so."_ _

__"Then please know that I see in this an opportunity to help you." Dorian smiled, though his eyes remained steady and soft in the firelight. "I know a temporary but effective solution. Magical in nature. It may seem unorthodox at first, but I assure--"_ _

__"No."_ _

__"Very well-- but talk to me? You seem exhausted all of the time... even now you look like you haven't slept in days. That does no one any good, not yourself, not _The Cause_ , as it were."_ _

__"No," Cullen told him. "Just no." Perhaps then to soften the blow, he sighed, and added, ruefully, "But if you must have an inkling, I'm sure you will learn soon enough from the nasty gossip in the mages tower."_ _

__Dorian dangled his wineglass, simply watching for a time, his eyes on Cullen's face. "I apologize," he said. "It's only that I had a good friend once who suffered from terrible dreams before his death. It chips away at you, bit by bit."_ _

__Cullen felt a twisting darkness in his heart, the prelude to anger, but he was catching it before it could take shape. "No, I. Forgive me." His gaze dropped to the glass in his hands. "I'm unaccustomed to concern that doesn't serve as a means for an agenda. Ten years ago, Ferelden's Circle fell to demons and blood mages. It was my first assignment... and it has shaped the path of my service as a templar ever since. All at once I was lavished with pity, chastised for a lack of faith, and incited to violence because _that's how mages are, that's what they'll do if you let them_."_ _

__After a moment, Dorian asked softly, "And what must you think of me, then?"_ _

__"I don't think of you as a mage," Cullen answered. "You're-- you're only a man."_ _

__" _Only_ a man." The corner of Dorian's mouth yanked back in distaste. _ _

__"You know what I mean." Cullen frowned at him. "Unless you would rather fish for compliments?"_ _

__Dorian made a fun, goatish sort of look. "Well, what have you got?" Then his expression faded to gentleness. "I'm being a brat, oh, I know. Oh, Cullen. I don't know what to tell you about all this, other than I am sorry."_ _

__Cullen shook his head._ _

__"I have sympathy for the young man who was set on that path," Dorian continued, looking him in the eye, "as well as the older man, looking back, who regrets where the journey has led him. But a new future stretches before you, and for the present time, you are where you are needed."_ _

__Cullen snorted._ _

__"You don't believe that." Dorian began to smile at him. " _What a load of shit_ , he says. I believe that's what I've just heard."_ _

__"I... the Inquisition was never meant to grow as large as it has. I was to understand from Cassandra that I would lead more of a squad of men. Templars and soldiers. As I did before."_ _

__Dorian leaned across to pat his forearm, and Cullen wanted to close his hand over that hand. "Well, look at you now. Who knew? Corypheus was set to descend upon us with all his forces like a dread god, and how did that turn out for him? Showed his backside, I thought! And don't you worry, I know our dear Lady Montilyet will find you a new set of trebuchets to play with... "_ _

__Cullen smiled thinly. Peace was restored. He didn't wish to crab and nettle at Dorian. Letting out the tightness in his chest with a sigh, he remarked, "That _was_ satisfying, was it not?" _ _

__"Indeed. Young Maxwell only reminds us of it every day." Dorian drained his glass and poured himself another._ _

__Though he couldn't speak to the flavor of the wine, its strength washed over him, and Cullen sat silent for a time in the glow of the fire. "What was your solution," he asked, then._ _

__By this time, Dorian had rearranged himself somewhat sideways in his chair. He looked perfectly comfortable in that catlike configuration, or like a serpent resting upon its coils. "Hmm, to help you sleep, you mean?"_ _

__"Yes. You said it was magical. Unorthodox."_ _

__"Well. I don't know. Promise you won't be offended."_ _

__Cullen rubbed his mouth and jaw. He wondered, absently, if Dorian would be brave enough, or well, where was this going at all? "I don't know if I'm offended yet," he said, "but probably not. Out with it."_ _

__"As you know, I am a necromancer," Dorian began._ _

___Oh._ "I'm not going to like this, am I?"_ _

__"You might! It's quite ingenious, really, with a proven record of success." Dorian looked pleased with himself. "Simply put, I know a method involving a spirit of Fear that dissolves your nightmares before they occur."_ _

__Cullen raised an eyebrow at him. "You intend to scare the shit out of me, then. That is your plan."_ _

__"Well, technically, I would take you down into a spooky place and scare the shit out of you there." Dorian bit his lip. "Atmosphere is everything."_ _

__"Why would I let you do this to me?"_ _

__"Because I care about you?" If Dorian intended to banter back, he ought not to let his voice waver shyly like that at the end._ _

__"You-- you would think that of all the things I'd be fine with. Listen to yourself."_ _

__"Oh, I am. A lovely speaking voice. Very charismatic. I'd agree to let me do it."_ _

__Cullen studied his face, the earnest, handsome, yet annoying look._ _

__"Or... I could just give you a magically heated neck rub. That works too, but I didn't know if you'd go for that or the undead spirit horror."_ _

__Cullen sighed into his glass. "I wouldn't say no to a neck rub," he admitted, "but perhaps another time. Honestly, what sort of ninny do you take me for." _When I haven't been drinking on an empty stomach..._. _ _

__

__

__Dorian raised his eyebrows, and Cullen raised an eyebrow back. Then Dorian and then he grinned like a weasel. "Oh my," he said just over the rim of his wineglass. "But what would Mother Giselle have to say if she heard."_ _

__"Oh, she would be there. You can just waltz right up when I have to talk to her. You dig right in, and I'll maintain rigid eye contact."_ _

__Dorian laughed, his eyes shut with joy. "She does make you awfully tense, I've noticed!"_ _

__"She's lucky I don't stuff her into the chicken coop."_ _

__"You're so rebellious with the chantry!"_ _

__"I killed my superior in an uprising and led my brethren in a purge of our ranks. Does it surprise you I harbor suspicion for organized religion?"_ _

__"So, after the Inquisition, no retiring to live as Brother Cullen in a monastery, no tending bees or making jams or whatever it is you people do?"_ _

__Cullen smirked._ _

__Dorian continued, "No, you're angry at the world, you're going to grow out your hair long and smoke a lot of elfroot, is it?"_ _

__Cullen shut his eyes and leaned back against the pleasant curve of the settee. "Why, do you have any?"_ _

__In a delighted whisper, Dorian said, "No, but Varric does. We could ask Varric. I don't mean that because he's a dwarf, either. He always has everything."_ _

__"I believe he has a guest."_ _

__Dorian's eyes widened. "Is it Hawke?"_ _

__"You wouldn't need to ask if it were Hawke."_ _

__..............._ _

__The evening whiled away in wine and idle conversation. Cullen was persuaded to eat something, and once he began, his body seemed to remember it needed fuel. Dorian wandered around merrily and drowsily through different topics: the upcoming mission, this thesis at Vyrantium, the sorting of magical artifacts, Varric's lady friend, the proper care of a dracolisk, and assortment of other commentary. He insisted that Cullen take the green shirt with him (no), or at least to try it on (also no). Then he'd asked if Cullen would sing something, a Fereldan song perhaps (no and no, but then, maybe another time)._ _

__Cullen found himself wanting to stay longer than he did, and he knew Dorian hoped he would. The settee was near the size of a cot, and Cullen had slept in more austere conditions than pillowy upholstery with all its Orlesian frippery. (Dorian had eventually confessed to having lifted it from Vivienne. _She has a few of them, she won't miss it!_ ) _ _

__Yet he knew that he might make a mistake if he were to stay here, especially when they'd been drinking. It wouldn't be fair to Dorian. It already wasn't, in a way. He knew Dorian had to wonder if there might be something between them. Andraste. It would make you mad to live like that, not being able to be who you were._ _

__At last he took his leave. "Oh, if you must," Dorian told him through a yawn. "Back to your cold wet loft, like a fool. Well, you're always welcome here, you know, with a place by the fire. And when you change your mind about the nightmares, I'll be pleased to be of service."_ _

__So back he went to his tower. The candles were all out now but for one in a wall sconce, freshly lit. Cole perhaps. Cullen dumped his armor on his desk, his sword also. It all seemed so heavy, so unwieldy in his arms, but once he'd taken it off in the room, he'd no wish to put it all back on. His neck hurt from the thought of it._ _

__The feelings of peace and hazy contentment were beginning to subside. He remembered how awful his body felt. The first blast of freezing air on the ramparts had been to thank for that. With a deep sigh, Cullen gripped the rungs of the ladder and began his climb. His arms and legs felt as though they weighed double. He became aware that he was not alone; his loft was lit by a silver candlestick holder, and Cole dangled his legs through the hole in the ceiling. The rain seemed not to bother him. His weird eyes watched Cullen silently._ _

__"What are you doing here, Cole," he said softly._ _

__"You could fall. Sometimes you fall down."_ _

__Cullen groaned. "I don't need your help, you know."_ _

__"He could help your dream."_ _

__"I don't want help."_ _

__"You do want help, but you don't know how to ask."_ _

__"I don't like when you read my thoughts. Don't do that."_ _

__Cole cocked his head. The hat brim turned. "It's... inappropriate," he said slowly. "Am I inappropriate?"_ _

__"Yes," grunted Cullen as he heaved up the last rung. "It's inappropriate, and... I don't like it. I don't like you knowing things, when you haven't... you don't know what it's like."_ _

__"You're afraid of me."_ _

__"You know why." Cullen rubbed his face. "Now be gone."_ _

__When his hand came away, he saw he was alone. Cole no longer sat on the broken lip of the roofing. Water drizzled steadily. A puddle gleamed across the bed. The straw in the mattress would be entirely soaked by now. Cullen stood in his cold wet loft, like a fool._ _

__Then he laid himself down on the floor, shut his eyes, and waited._ _

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I've bastardized an apocryphal quote from Churchill being surprised by Roosevelt in his bath. “The Prime Minister of Great Britain has nothing to hide from the President of the United States.” Too funny, I couldn't resist.
> 
> 2\. Necromancer Dorian is best Dorian. More to come.
> 
> 3\. Prompts are irresistible.


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